


Sweet Talk

by burymeinziam



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burymeinziam/pseuds/burymeinziam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zayn is sort of a poet and Liam serves him coffee and sneaks him leftover biscotti. (and Louis prefers pictures over words, Harry loves Shakespeare and Niall sings about the girls he fucked in high school)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Talk

Zayn fucks.

The guy hovering over him grunting and groaning and dropping hot beads of sweat onto Zayn’s overheated skin – Zayn thinks his name might be Andy. Maybe Jason; not that it really matters – fucks into him a little too hard. He fucks into Zayn like he has something to prove with his fingertips digging into Zayn’s hips leaving angry red marks in their wake. He fucks Zayn like he owns him, panting out obscene pet names that should make Zayn cringe and turn his head into the dirt, come stained sheets covering the bed. It should bother him but in Zayn’s mind it doesn’t really matter because this overexcited kid with the death grip on his hips is just another warm body; something to pass the time and make Zayn feel a little less alone.

Zayn doesn’t really mind because the drag of this guy’s cock in his ass is a little too dry and it burns in a way that makes Zayn want to find a pen and write about how hard it is to feel sometimes and how it just so happens that pain and the raw ache around his rum when this Andy-Jason guy pulls out too far and misses Zayn holes when he tries to slam back in is the only thing reminding Zayn that he’s alive.

It’s kind of like Zayn’s been numb for the past twenty years; Like he’s just been passing time learning names and making acquaintances and laughing at jokes that would probably be funny if he weren’t so goddamned apathetic. It’s like he’s wasted his life in antique shops picking up book covers with covers that are barely attached to the spine written by people nobody has ever heard of – and probably never will – and living his life through the messy scrawl inked into the faded yellow pages that seem to know him better than he knows himself.

Zayn fucks and he doesn’t really mind when Andy-Jason or that guy Kyle from the bar he hangs around on Sundays or that kid with the butterfly or the moth tattooed on his stomach grip his hips a little too tight or forget to use enough lube or call him names in bed because it makes him feel grounded – like he’s present and breathing.

Because most of the time Zayn feels like he’s slipping; like he’s hanging onto reality by  the skin of his teeth and at any moment he could float away and be lost forever with nothing but his thoughts and the sinking feeling that he’s always been alone.

And at least with this asshole biting down onto his shoulder, his teeth breaking skin and drawing blood that Zayn can feel trickling down his bicep, Zayn knows that somebody is there; somebody has seen him and acknowledged his existence and Zayn isn’t just wandering; he’s hanging on.

 

_Feels like I’m falling_

_Lost in a daze; not so sure_

_Waiting to come down._

 

Liam doesn’t usually work Thursday nights because he has study hours in the library (and calculus is really doing him in) but he needs the money and Louis called in sick that afternoon – something about spotting a boy in an orange sweater down by the pier and _needing_ to take his picture because words simply wouldn’t do him justice (not that they ever did).

Luckily it isn’t that busy tonight so Liam can crack open his text book and at least attempt to get some of these problems done on his own before his begs his tutor to help him between classes the next day. It’s not busy but that guy is sitting in the corner of the shop again and Liam can feel his eyes burning holes into the back of his neck and it still doesn’t fail to make his heart race and his palms sweat.

According to Louis, this kid has been coming to the shop since before Liam started working but it seems like he’s here almost every day now and he’s always staring save for the few seconds he takes every now and then to jot a few words down into the beat up journal he carries around with him.

He sits in the corner with his coffee that he insists on ordering in a Styrofoam cup (“I don’t like the way the other cups look,” he’d said when Liam had heard the request for the first time “Ruins the flavor for me and – not to be rude – but the logo is fucking ugly.”) staring at Liam and writing his words and listening to the Irish kid with the dirty blond hair sing about all the girls he’d fucked in high school.

It’s not like Liam minds. It’s actually quite the opposite. He enjoys the attention because, in all honesty, the guy is kind of ridiculously good looking in that struggling artist sort of way with his ratty beanie shoved over messy black hair and his coffee stained t-shirts and those black jeans he wears with the holes in the knees. Liam kind of likes the mass of tattoos littering his forearm and the cloud of smoke that is perpetually surrounding his corner table.

It’s just that he has this way of slipping the beanie off of his head when the shop gets a little too warm and Liam can tell that the blond dye in his hair was put in a long time ago because his roots are grown out and it also kind of looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in a few days and sometimes he smells like coffee and nicotine and old books and maybe a little bit of body odor, but Liam doesn’t really mind at all.

Liam doesn’t mind because during his slow shifts this guy will sit at his corner table alternating between smoking cigarettes and chewing on the end of his pen while he scribbles words down into his journal and just before he leaves he’ll jot something down onto a coffee stained napkin or the side of his empty Styrofoam cup and set it down in front of Liam on the counter before mumbling a barely audible “see ya later.”

What he doesn’t like are the knots in his stomach and the way his face always grows hot whenever this guy walks in, his lips curving up into this sly mysterious smile that goes straight to Liam’s dick just before he glances down at Liam’s nametag and says “Hey, Liam.”

What Liam doesn’t like is the way he loses all ability to form words at the mere sight of this guy and the only way he really knows how to communicate his interest is through the espresso shots he sneaks into the Styrofoam cup coffee and the left over biscotti he has to work up the nerve to drop off at the corner table on open mic nights.

But it’s Thursday and Louis dropped his shift and Liam is stuck standing around at the register pretending to wipe down counters in between stressing over numbers and symbols his brain can’t even begin to properly comprehend.

That blond kid is up on stage again but this time he’s singing a cover of some Coldplay song Liam can’t remember the name of. He doesn’t sound too bad and it’s way better than those shitty songs he’s written about that girl from Spanish who broke his heart in a foreign language.

Liam doesn’t even hear him all that much though, not really, because he’s focused on the eyes he can feel trained to the side of his face and he’s chewing on his pencil – something he hasn’t done in years – just so he has something to concentrate on because all Liam really wants to do is turn his head that forty-five degrees so he can catch a glimpse of that stubble covered face with the piercing golden brown eyes.

Liam looks back down at the graph he’d copied into his notebook and groans, dropping his head to the counter and wishing he were anywhere but here wearing this stupid apron and smelling like caramel macchiato and day old scones.

And then he hears it: the soft shuffle of feet dragging against the floor and the lazy weight of a body leaning against the counter and then

“Hey, Liam.”

Liam looks up and he’s there standing in front of him, the beanie sitting half way on his head (it looks about two seconds from sliding off) and his roots are just as bad as they’ve always been and he’s sort of smiling as his eyes shift between Liam’s face and the shitty graph sketched into his notebook.  

“Oh, um…” Liam pushes himself upright and rubs nervously at the back of his neck. He can feel his face growing hot because his voice sounds higher than usual. “Sorry I was just… I – Calculus and –”

“You sneak espresso shots into my coffee,” he says, plain as day before setting his cup onto the counter and running his finger around the rim.

Liam’s face flushes even further and he ducks his head, his hair falling over his eyes. “Um, yeah; sometimes.”

Liam can feel this kid laughing at him and he isn’t sure if it’s because he probably looks completely ridiculous or if it’s because he finds Liam’s nerves and his beet red face a little endearing. Either way Liam wants to run into the back of the shop and hide in the freezer.

“It’s nice,” he says. “I like it.”

Liam chances a peek at the boy in front of him through his hair and sees that he’s still smiling but it isn’t patronizing and that this is sort of his way of saying thank you. He draws in a deep breath before lifting his face fully and attempting to return the smile without looking as though he’s completely unsure of what he’s doing.

“Oh.”

“I’m Zayn,” the guy says, lazily reaching up to adjust the beanie on his head. “In case you were wondering. You’ve never asked.”

_Zayn._

Liam has always wondered, but he’s never had the courage to inquire about a name. It fits, he thinks. It’s a different and sort of exotic in the same way that this boy – Zayn – is different from everyone else who walks into this shitty coffee shop.  Liam knows there are probably hundred, maybe even thousands, of other Zayn’s out in the world and that Zayn sort of embodies the stereotypical look of the struggling artist/writer/poet trope that is so often associated with the guys who hang out in coffee shops all day, but he’s still different. There is something about him that doesn’t quite fit the mold and his name – _Zayn_ – just fits. Liam thinks it’s perfect.

It’s when Zayn’s looking at him with this bemused expression on his face, leaning over the edge of the counter and studying Liam’s face like he’s trying to commit every feature to memory that Liam realizes he hasn’t said anything in return.

“I—”

Zayn chuckles, pushes his empty cup back and forth between two of his fingers. Liam kind of hates how relaxed Zayn seems to be just looking at Liam and watching him blush and fumble over his words. Liam can see where Zayn has his journal shoved into the back pocket of his jeans and wonders how many of the words jotted down inside are about him and what they are and he wonders how pretty they are and if he can measure up.

“It’s okay,” Zayn says when he realizes Liam isn’t going to add much more to that broken off sentence and reaches into the pocket of his dirty, ripped up jeans. “Here,” he adds. “I wrote something for you.”

The napkin is a little torn and there are a few crumbs on it from the biscotti Liam had brought to Zayn’s table earlier that night and if he looks real close he can see a few drops of spilled coffee around the edges.

When he looks back up Zayn is already at the doors, pushing one open and looking back to where Liam is standing behind the counter.

“See ya later, Liam.”

 

_Months, you slip me shots_

_Still all I know if you don’t_

_Like your coffee black_

 

“Tea,” Liam says, his voice shaky and a little unsure when Zayn next walks in during his next shift.  He’s wearing a faded white T-shirt with what appears to be a spray painted image of Oscar Wilde on it underneath a beat up leather jacket. The beanie is still half perched on top of his head, his messy hair peeking out of the front and Liam sort of knows he’s in love. Or something like it.

Infatuation may be a better word, but Liam has never been good with them.

“Huh?” Zayn responds, cocking his head to the side at Liam’s introduction.

Liam can feel his palms growing sweaty and now he’s beginning to wonder if he should have said anything at all; if maybe a small “thanks for the poem and here’s your coffee” would have been a better idea.

But it’s too late now and he has to follow through so Liam just sucks in a deep breath and presses forward.

“The poem,” he explains. “It said – I don’t drink coffee. I usually just take tea.”

And then Zayn is grinning as he slides the beanie off of his head just before shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans and Liam thinks he’s impossibly prettier when he smiles.

“That makes sense,” He says. “Because coffee is so fucking bitter. Bitter people drink coffee; sad people. People with heavy hearts and too much on their minds. Lonely people drink coffee.” Liam watches as Zayn runs his fingers through his hair, glances at the other people in the shop. “Assholes like them drink coffee just to fit in… ordering their machiattos and shit…” He turns back to Liam and his face softens, the smile returns and Zayn is just as pretty. “But you… tea. It makes sense. You’re light and you’re sweet and you’re simple; I can tell. Tea. I should have known.”

Liam isn’t sure of what to say but he knows that his face feels warm and that he probably looks as if he could pass out at any given moment. When he goes to open his mouth his throat feels tight, like every word he’s ever learned is stuck and fighting to come out but to no real avail.

“I—" He clamps his mouth shut, closes his eyes, three deep breaths. “I’ll get your coffee.”

Liam sees it when Zayn smirks and says a quick thank you before leaving the front counter for his usual table at the corner of the coffee shop. Zayn keeps his eye on him though just as he always does. It’s strange for Zayn because he doesn’t usually do this, this courting people and taking things slow. Zayn doesn’t sit and watch and learn and get to know. He doesn’t do relationships because he isn’t good at them.

But then there is Liam with his sweet chocolate brown eyes and his shaggy brown hair and that nervous smile that always finds his face whenever he takes Zayn’s coffee order or brings him those leftover biscotti. Liam who makes Zayn feel light instead of heavy; who makes him feel like it’s okay not to feel tethered to this earth and that living amongst the clouds isn’t such a bad thing after all.

It’s just that lately Zayn has been feeling like giving up; like maybe this hanging on by skin of his teeth and getting by on quick fucks and dirty, open mouthed kisses on the overcrowded dance floors of those cheap night clubs he visits from time to time isn’t even worth it. Zayn has been feeling as though maybe he’s meant to be alone living life through dead men he reads about in the old journals and memoirs he finds in the second hand shops scattered around town. He’d given up and accepted the fact that all he’d ever really know was the feel of a warm body, but never the intimacy that people so often find beyond that – and that was okay.

But then there’s Liam from the coffee shop who is sweet and shy and so far out of Zayn’s league, but makes him want to try.

And when Liam brings him his coffee in the small Styrofoam cup Zayn prefers of over the thick cardboard ones with the ugly shop logo printed onto the front he decides that now is just as good of a time as any other. He drains the cup and fishes his pen from his pocket, jotting down a small poem and a few extra words onto the side of the cup before adjusting his beanie on his head and heading toward the shop doors.

Liam spots him and his voice wavers a bit when he says “You’re leaving already?”

Zayn grins, his fingers turning the cup in his hands, and moves to set the cup on the front counter. “There’s a lecture on gothic literature at the community college. Figured I might sit in on it for a while.”

And then he’s out the front door calling out a “see ya later, Liam” just before the doors swing closed behind him.

 

_My mug was stained, a_

_Good trade. Cleaner than money._

_Espresso for words._

_(Next time I see you._

_Cups of crushed bean; Bitter Zayn._

_And tea. Sweet and light. )_

 

Liam is still staring at the used coffee cup, a small smile on his face (the kind that can only ever be brought on by mysterious boys in coffee stained t-shirts and ratty gray beanies) when Louis enters the shop wearing his camera around his neck and fingering a photo of a boy in an orange sweater.

“What has you grinning like an idiot?” He asks, his tone light and playful but tinged with a hint of curiosity.

Liam’s eyes dart up toward his friend – he guesses he could call Louis a friend even though they only ever really hang out at work and Louis’ personality is a little bolder than Liam is used to – and he presses his lips into a thin line in attempts to hide his smile because he knows Louis isn’t all that fond of Zayn and he’s never going to hear the end of it.

“Nothing,” Liam answers. “I was just thinking.”

“That’s a Styrofoam cup.”

Liam nods. “So?”

“It’s that dirty poet kid who sits in the corner all day isn’t it?”  Louis is smirking now because he knows he’s right and he’s forgotten all about that bright eyed boy with the wild hair and the orange sweatshirt who was out on the pier reciting lines from Hamlet all morning.

Liam averts his gaze, shrugs his shoulders as he traces his finger around the rim of the cup, and sighs because there really isn’t any use in lying. “Does it really matter?”

Louis mirrors Zayn’s shrug of the shoulders as he removes the camera from around his neck on his way behind the counter. He switches it out for the apron he keeps on the shelf beneath the counter, placing the later over his head and tying it off in the back.

“Not really, I just think he’s a little stuck up is all. The kid writes too much and it looks like he thinks he’s better for it. Like words say so much when all they really do is get in the way.”

“Not if you know how to use them,” Liam argues. “And so what if he writes too much; he could just have a lot on his mind and nobody to say it to.”

Louis takes one look at the expression on Liam’s face and knows there really is no arguing with him because Liam is just in too deep. He’s practically in love with this kid who sends him poems on used napkins and Styrofoam cups and, when Louis thinks about it, it’s actually kind of romantic even though the level of romanticism in the gesture makes him a little nauseous.

“I guess,” He replies with a small chuckle before moving to stand in front of the register. “Besides. You know I’m biased. I’m a photographer; I’ll always prefer pictures to words.”

Liam nods, knows Louis means well even though he has a strange way of showing it. “Yeah,” there’s a pause and then “but you still don’t have to be such a dick about it.”

Louis raises his brows and, for a moment, Liam wonders if he’s going to say something about the insult but then Louis’ lips are curving up into a smile and he’s reaching for his camera under the counter. “Why don’t I tell you about this beautiful boy I saw who seems to have a thing for Shakespeare.”

 

_Tried to write for you_

_But not sure of where to start_

_Words don’t come easy_

Liam has never been one for words even though he’s always loved them. He liked reading old books and getting lost in the way language was always subject to change and how words held different meanings depending on context and they ways in which they were spoken. Liam loved how a simple greeting (“hey, Liam.”) could be taken as something carefree and completely platonic or it could hold a confession, a silent proclamation of want and desire between each and every letter.

He’d tried putting pen to paper. Back in high school Liam had written countless stories and poems that always ended up balled up and tossed into the trash can near his desk or sent straight to the recycle bin on his laptop. And when Zayn had started slipping him those poems written on wrinkled napkins and old receipts, Liam had tried creating something to give to him in return but nothing ever sounded just right. There was always something off; something that felt forced and lacking the ease that seemed to radiate from the words Zayn had given him. 

Even now, sitting across from Zayn in the coffee shop on Liam’s day off with Zayn sipping from a cup of coffee (in his ever present Styrofoam cup) and Liam nursing a hot cup of tea Liam is at a loss at how to describe the way Zayn looks easy and carefree like he has nowhere in the world to be but here.

Zayn’s just staring; tilting his head to the side every now and then as if he’d looked at Liam’s face and discovered something new that has caught his attention and Liam can feel his face heating up at the scrutiny. Nobody ever looks at him like that and it’s not as if he feels as though Zayn is judging him and picking at every flaw he can find in Liam’s appearance, it’s just that people don’t look at him; they never notice.

“You’re embarrassed,” Zayn says plainly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Liam shrugs. “You keep staring at me.”

“Maybe I think you’re pretty.”

Liam starts to say something in return but closes his mouth because, when it comes down to it, he really doesn’t know how to react.

For a moment Zayn wonders if he’d gone too far. He’d gone and forgotten that Liam isn’t like the boys at the bars who aren’t looking for much more than a quick wank in the boy’s room. Liam may not like bold and straightforward, maybe he prefers shy smiles and the accidental brush of fingertips.

But then Liam is looking up at Zayn and he can tell that he’s nervous because his hands are shaking where he’s holding on to his cup. But then Liam is grinning and his cheeks are sort of flushed in a way that reminds Zayn of springtime just after it’s rained when the air is fresh and damp but not quite heavy and everything feels sort of light.

Liam is grinning and his cheeks are flushed and Zayn feels lighter than he’s felt in months when he says “Maybe I think you’re pretty too.”

 

_You make me want more._

_Sex; just a three letter word._

_Hearts instead of flesh._

 

Liam is studying when Zayn texts him at three in the morning.

It’s something short and obscure that Liam can’t quite figure out (but that’s nothing new when it comes to Zayn as Liam has come to learn). It’s four words that make Liam’s heart freeze in his chest and he feels as though he can’t really move from where he’s sitting in his seat.

_I want you entire._

At first glance Liam thinks it’s sex and he isn’t really sure how he feels about that because he and Zayn have only been seeing each other for a little over three weeks. But then he thinks it’s probably more because Zayn could never be so basic. As time has gone on Liam has learned that Zayn is sentimental in a way that most people aren’t. He doesn’t get lost in cards and gifts – things.

Zayn gets lost in heart and soul, something that Liam sometimes believes Zayn thinks he lacks.

( _“You make me feel alive,” Zayn said one day as he and Liam strolled down the pier one day._

_Liam chuckled, gave Zayn’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure you were breathing long before you met me.”_

_And Zayn paused, took a brief moment to take in Liam’s face; the brown of his eyes that was deep and soft, the line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his smile, and the way the light seemed to be hitting him at the perfect angel. Zayn had never really believed in God, but in that moment Liam really did look like an angel._

_“Yeah,” Zayn says, resuming the slow, easy pace they’d been keeping. “But not really.”_ )

There’s a short pang on his window that causes Liam to jump in his seat. And then another that has Liam thinking it’s rocks, but his roommate isn’t home and Liam never really has visitors. The third one convinces him to pull back the curtain and when he looks down he sees Zayn standing out on the grass in one of his paint stained T-shirts (“ _I ran out of words to write about you so I decided to try picture,” Zayn had told him. “I’m real shit at it though.”_ ), ratty jeans, and that stupid beanie that is perpetually sliding off of the back of his head.

Liam can’t help the grin that takes over his face when he holds up a finger telling Zayn to wait just a moment before he’s sliding on his shoes and grabbing his keys from his desk.

“What’re you doing here?” Liam asks when he spots Zayn in the lobby of dormitory.

Zayn shrugs his shoulders. “I was lying around in the back of my truck looking at the stars and thinking about this guy I’ve been reading about – John something. He had messy handwriting so his name was hard to read – and I remembered this part where he was talking about this girl he kept seeing and how he loved her even though they’d never spoken and it reminded me of you.”

( _I want you entire._ )

Liam feels his face grow hot as he ducks his head. “Oh.”

 “You’re getting shy.”

“No,” Liam says, shaking his head. “I just don’t know what to say.”

And it’s true because even three weeks after meeting him Zayn still had this way of making Liam feel at a loss for words. It was like Zayn always knew what to say and when to say it. Liam felt as though he could sit back and listen to Zayn’s voice for hours and never grow tired; Liam would be content to never speak another word for as long as he lived if it meant he could listen to the sound of Zayn’s voice until he drew in his very last breath.

Because, with Zayn, Liam felt as though there were no words. He’d never been good with them and he’d never really known how to choose the right ones, but he had a feeling that there really wasn’t any way to accurately describe the effect Zayn had on him.

“Anything,” Zayn tells him with a simple shrug of his shoulders. “Say anything.”

“What you said earlier,” Liam begins. “About that John guy – does that mean you love me?”

And he’s sort of half kidding even though he really wants to know. Liam’s smiling like he’s expecting Zayn to just play along and say something noncommittal because everything is still sort of new and not super serious and Liam thinks Zayn may want to keep it that way. With the way he’d talked about the guys he’s been with from the bars and the way he’d reacted when he’d spotted that Harry kid perched on the front counter of the coffee shop taking pictures with Louis

( _“We used to fuck,” Zayn had told him. “Not that often, but we used to. It wasn’t anything serious, but it could have been.”_

_“What happened?” Liam asked, his eyes never leaving Harry as he came to realize why Louis hadn’t been able to forget the “the beautiful boy from the pier.” It made him wonder why Zayn would leave something like that for someone like him._

_“Harry was young and naïve and didn’t know what he wanted and, at the time, all I was really looking for was a warm body. It worked for a bit, but after a while sex is just sex and when it’s over you feel even lonelier than you had before it all started.”)_

Liam figured Zayn didn’t do relationships. He knew things between he and Zayn weren’t so basic as they were between Zayn and the guys he used to mess around with, but Liam wasn’t sure Zayn was looking at love.

But then Zayn is ducking his head and his hair is flopping over his eyes and he’s shuffling his feet because this is all so new and uncomfortable. He’s never even come close to telling somebody that he loves them and Zayn knows Liam would accept it, that he’d probably even say it back, but it doesn’t make it any less scary. Zayn lifts his head anyways though and draws in a deep breath before saying on the exhale “I think it does.”

 

_I want to meet you_

_Where the soul meets the body_

_And never come home_

 

The Irish kid is playing guitar on stage again but this time he’s just the background for this sonnet Harry is reading for Louis. It’s one of Liam’s nights off, so he’s sitting at the corner table with Zayn nursing a hot cup of tea while Zayn listens to Shakespeare and jots down notes into the journal he always keeps in his back pocket. Every now and then Liam will sneak a peek at the pages, but everything Zayn writes down is all jumbled and unorganized with one word sentences written in the margins and small doodles etched into the center of the page so it’s hard for him to make sense of anything.

“I never understood why he liked Shakespeare so much,” Zayn says quietly. “The guy is really overrated.”

Liam shrugs. “Some of his stuff is nice.”

“Romeo and Juliet?” Zayn asks.

“It’s a love story.”

Zayn shakes his head. “It’s lust. They didn’t love each other; they wanted to fuck. And that’s fine. But people need to stop glorifying it and call it what it is.”

Liam sips at his tea, focusing on the warmth of it as it slides down his throat. “But what about us?” He asks. He’s gotten better with speaking his mind with Zayn. Liam still feels a bit nervous when their opinions differ or when he’s forced to share something that feels a little close to home, but it’s gotten easier. “You said you loved me from the start.”

“That’s different,” Zayn tells him. “I was in love with the idea of you at first. I thought you were sweet and interesting and different. I didn’t actually love you until later.”

If Liam didn’t know him any better he might have been offended or put off but he knows the weight Zayn’s words hold and how Zayn doesn’t just say things without meaning them and that him feeling so strongly about Liam at all is a pretty big deal.

Zayn looks at him and Liam can see the small amount of fear in his eyes like he’s wondering if he’d said the wrong thing; if he’d gone and messed things up by being too honest and caught up within himself.

“It’s not like I don’t,” Zayn says quickly. “Because I do, but it wasn’t the same in the beginning as it is now because before I just knew how you made me feel and I liked it but now I know why and that’s –”

“I know,” Liam says cutting him off.

Zayn nods, says okay and leans over to kiss Liam briefly on the mouth and he tastes like shitty coffee and cigarettes because even though Louis has worked at the shop longer than Liam he still doesn’t quite understand the coffee maker (but he makes really good muffins which is why Liam assumes the manager keeps him on). Liam savors it and keeps it filed away under the little things he loves about Zayn even though he sort of hates the taste of black coffee and cigarettes and perhaps a bit of stale breath.

When he pulls away, Zayn looks at Liam long and hard like he’s memorizing the placement of every pore, taking in the small cracks in his lips and the deep brown of his eyes and then he’s extending his hand and nodding toward the door.

“Come with me?” He asks.

Liam nods.

Zayn holds on to Liam’s hand even though he doesn’t have to and Liam lets him. They walk until they reach Zayn’s truck (the one Liam says he should probably get rid of because the brakes really don’t work and there’s no air and it only plays cassettes) which is parked around the back of the shop in the employee area, and Liam is about let go of Zayn’s hand and get into the passenger’s seat when Zayn shakes his head and tells him to climb into the back. There are old cigarette butts and broken Styrofoam cups and old cliff bar wrappers littering the bed of the truck because sometimes Zayn likes to lie back and look at the stars or maybe flip through an old book every now and then and he really can’t be bothered to clean things up. Liam takes a seat and leans against the back window of the truck and waits for Zayn to explain exactly what he plans on doing with the rest of the night.

“Lie down,” Zayn tells him and Liam raises his brows. Zayn huffs out a breath of laughter and shakes his head. “Just do it; I wanna show you something.”

Liam starts to do as Zayn instructed, but then pauses before giving in and kicking a few food wrappers to the side and lying back in the bed of the truck.

Zayn follows soon after and lies down next to Liam. They’re quiet for a moment and Liam is about to break down and ask what this is all about when Zayn beats him to speaking. “Remember that John guy I told you about?” He asks. “The one from that journal I was reading a while back?”

Liam turns his head to look at Zayn but he’s focused on the sky. His eyebrows are sort of knitted together like he’s trying to find the right words and it confuses Liam a bit because Zayn has this way of knowing what to say and how to say it. He never really has to search for the correct nouns or adjectives; he just chooses from the ones he knows are perfect and that’s really all there is to it.

“Yeah,” Liam answers, his voice slow and quiet because he thinks anything louder might ruin everything. “I remember.”

“He wrote something about the stars at some point,” Zayn says a few beats later. “It was somewhere around the time he started drinking too much, I think, you know, after his wife died and all. I told you about that?”

Liam nods. “Yeah.”

“Well, he got drunk one night and he went out to this field, you know? It was this big field – I think it used to be a farm or something – and he laid down with a bottle of scotch and he just looked at the stars for a while.” He pauses, thinks for a moment. “I don’t know if it was because he had a lot on his mind or like… I don’t know, maybe it was all that fucking scotch he was drinking, but he looked at the stars and he said it was like feeling her there – his wife I mean – he said looking at the stars was like looking at her and it was like feeling the weight of the entire world crashing down on him and filling him up. And he was so empty before. He said he felt like a shell just walking around with a bottle in his right hand going through the motions of a life that held no meaning but lying under the stars filled him up and he felt full but it wasn’t heavy…”

Liam doesn’t say anything because he isn’t really sure what Zayn is getting at with John and the stars and feeling empty and then filled to the brim. Liam hasn’t ever felt anything but light and maybe a bit troubled from time to time, but nothing so profound. Zayn’s words are something he has a little trouble wrapping his mind around.

Zayn chuckles, wrinkling his nose a bit as a small gust of wind sends the stink from the dumpsters over their way. “This probably sounds completely out of the blue, but I have a point,” he says. “It’s like… When I read that I knew what he meant. It’s not like Romeo and Juliet, you know? I don’t think love is like that. I think love is not just seeing someone and wanting them; it’s feeling them all around you and being completely overwhelmed, but feeling totally at ease at the same time.”

And then Liam gets it because before Zayn everything had been sort of static for him. He was just a guy who worked in a coffee shop trying to pay his way through school; nothing special. And then he met Zayn and everything sort of changed. He still worked at the coffee shop and he still struggled to pay his way through school, but life was different; Liam saw things through different lenses and he felt more fulfilled, sort of like he was doing something right.

“I think I know what you mean.” Liam says quietly and from the corner of his eye he can see Zayn smiling and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. It’s not big and bright the way most conventionally beautiful smiles are. It’s something small and knowing, like Zayn is feeling something he’s felt a million times over but this time is a little different and it means a little more.

“I don’t feel like I’m falling anymore,” Zayn says. “Or like I’m wandering or floating towards some unknown destination I’ll probably never get to.” He turns over to face Liam and their faces are only a few inches apart. Liam can smell the coffee and sweat and all of the passion in the world and it’s all Zayn and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. “Well, not really. Sometimes I feel like I’m wandering, but it’s still different. I don’t feel lost and I think that’s the most important part.”

Liam doesn’t say anything for a moment mostly because he never really thought he’d have such a profound effect on another person. Even though he’s finished talking, Zayn’s voice still feel raw and real and ringing in Liam’s ears; he can literally feel the emotion in it and how much it means and it touches him. He feels proud and lucky and like he should say something just as meaningful, but he isn’t really sure how. It isn’t that he doesn’t feel it because he does; it’s just that Liam isn’t as good with words. He doesn’t know all of the pretty adjectives and the different ways in which he can tell Zayn that he loves him probably more than anyone he’s ever met and sometimes that’s really scary, but at the same time it isn’t because while the idea of being so taken over by another person is extremely overwhelming it also makes Liam feel strangely calm.

And it’s funny because it smells like trash and stale coffee and old muffins and discarded biscotti, but Liam feels like he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. He can see the stars and Zayn’s breath is sort of hot on his neck and that feeling may or may not be going straight to his dick.

There’s also this strange look in Zayn’s eye that Liam has never really seen before. Zayn’s eyes are dark and half lidded and his tongue keeps darting out to lick at his lips which are a little chapped (which is nothing new because Zayn can never seem to keep track of his chapstick – not that he really tries) and he’s basically looking at Liam like he _wants_ him and that may or may not go straight to Liam’s dick as well.

“Zayn,” Liam says, his voice hoarse.

“I want you entire,” Zayn responds and Liam remembers the text message Zayn had sent him and the sentence takes on a completely different meaning.

And then Liam is licking his lips as well as he swallows the lump forming in his throat. “Here?”

Zayn nods, shrugs his shoulders, reaches out to card his fingers through Liam’s hair. His eyes slip shut as he exhales long and deep. “Here, there… anywhere,” he says. “I’d have you anywhere.”

Liam doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t drag things out with words that don’t matter and probably wouldn’t make much sense or sound as sweet and raw as the ones that flow so effortlessly past Zayn’s cracked lips. He doesn’t look for the words he can’t find because they don’t really matter.

The only thing of importance is the bitter taste of coffee being passed from Zayn’s mouth to his own and the harsh bite of Zayn’s fingers tugging at his hair. It’s the fact that Liam doesn’t care that their parked near the dumpster behind the coffee shop, lying in the back of Zayn’s truck in a pile of trash Zayn is probably never going to pick up and anyone could walk by at any moment and find them.

The only thing that matters is that Liam is fully prepared to hand himself over – mind, body, and soul – to another person for the first time and it smells terrible and it’s cold when his shirt gets tossed toward the other end of the truck bed but Zayn’s fingers are warm and trembling a little when they splay themselves out across Liam’s bare back.

It’s quiet except for the sound of breathing and Liam’s hands are shaky when they slip beneath the fabric of Zayn’s stained T-shirt. When it’s pulled over his head and discarded somewhere alongside Liam’s, Zayn’s lips attach themselves to Liam’s neck and they’re softer than they were before (probably due to the moisture of their mingling saliva, but Liam can’t really bring himself to care) and Liam is sighing, long and at a slightly embarrassing volume.

“Is this okay?” Zayn asks, his hands gripping Liam’s hips when he pulls back a few moments later. His lips are a bit swollen and his eyes are wide and wondering like he’s expecting Liam to say no; like this is too good to be true and this really can’t be happening because Zayn has never felt less heavy. This doesn’t hurt the way it did with Andy or Harry or any of those other guys – even before they forced their way inside of him as if he were something to be used. Liam’s arms around his neck, his head resting in the crook of his neck and his hair tickling the underside of his chin feels light and airy and Zayn feels consumed.

Liam nods, moving Zayn’s hands to the button and zip on his pants. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to Zayn’s and it’s soft but eager. “Yes,” Liam whispers, his lips brushing against Zayn’s on the single syllable. He tastes like tea and honey.

It’s not like before where Zayn used just as much as he was being used. Liam isn’t a reminder to breathe so much as he is a reason. Liam’s body pressed against his own, the soft sighs that slip past his lips when Zayn reaches down and wraps a hand around his cock for the first time, the way Liam feels more like a welcomed guest than he does an intruder when he pushes himself inside, and the tiny bruises that litter his skin in the afterglow (and the matching ones Liam left behind on his own) while they lie naked in the bed of Zayn’s truck – all of it serves as inspiration.

 

_Feels like im falling_

_Falling slow, falling sweet; free._

_Falling toward you; home_

_(don’t want to come down)_  


End file.
